


Ar'Ghilana

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Like Water [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Childhood Memories, Chubby Inquisitor, Cute Kids, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, POV Blackwall, Slice of Life, Symbolism, The Fade, Wet Clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 23:51:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: Lady Lavellan and Blackwall spend some time at the riverside, and he discovers that she is quite famous among her kin - and not just because of her Mark.





	Ar'Ghilana

The wandering Dalish clan has been most accommodating, to a point of making Blackwall feel somewhat awkward. A painful tension seeping through his flesh like it is being slowly turned to stone, he finds himself far too out of place among the quietly watchful, soft-stepping People of his lady. He is just… baggage, after all; a standby hovering, unsure and tight-throated, in her shadow, while her fellow elves bow to her in greeting, their stern, sun-worn angular faces breaking out into flashing grins of delight.   
  
A lot of them crowd in front of her to clasp her hand and forearm in a firm gesture of greeting, while she casts down her deep inky eyes, a tender flush blossoming on the tip of the ear that is visible against the shaved half of her head.   
  
'Ar-Ghilana!’ some of the older elves exclaim, and the youngsters repeat the word after them, the tumult of their outcries dancing through the campsite, till it gets lost in the warble of children’s voices, not quite managing to pronounce it right but still silver-bright with excitement.  
  
'Ar-Ghilana, Ar-Ghilana! Aw-Wiwanna!’  
  
Blackwall is not certain what this means - but the call of the Dalish is filled with as much reverence as the voices of Andrastian commoners hailing their blessed Herald. She has come to be quite renowned among her kind - much to Blackwall’s relief; he still remembers how worried she was that the other Dalish might reject her for falling in with the cult of a 'shemlen’ god (she fretted so much over this that even her well-practiced genial smile, which stays on her lips through the gravest torment that comes with facing demons and crazy magisters and heavens know what else, began to flicker into nothingness).  
  
But all past unease aside, this particular clan at least appears to revere Lady Lavellan, and to nigh on smother her in expressions of hospitality. Just as she deserves. Just as she alone deserves.  
  
The rest of them - they just happened to be nearby, basking in her pure light. And like any chance tagalongs, they had best not overstep their boundaries. Blackwall, for one, makes himself scarce the moment such a chance presents itself.   
  
He blurts out some rather sloppily strung-together words of thanks when one of the women of the clan graciously gestures towards the nearby river bank and says, 'You may share these waters with us, to cook and to bathe and to refill your flasks if need be’. And then staggers off down the slope, towards the rippling greyish ribbon of the stream, grunting and swearing to himself each time his clumsy feet hit a rock or an annoyingly placed root.  
  
The elven woman is still gazing after him, one eyebrow quirked upwards on her zigzag-tattooed face in mild confusion over his dismal retreat, when he crouches down in the shade of an overhanging tree and yanks off his padded overcoat, busying himself with getting rid of all those black moist smears that marred his shoulders when he ducked down into some dank cave or other, during the search of lost Grey Warden artefacts… Ah, his lady always so kindly takes him along on those, chuckling into her dimpled, perpetually green-stained hand every time he fails to contain his boyish glee.  
  
He smirks faintly at the memory, and takes to rubbing the two folds of fabric harder against one another within the glassy jet of whispering water. Soon, Lady Lavellan’s two other companions join him - and for the same reason, by the looks of it.  
  
'We sure stick out, huh?’ Bull points out, his booming voice making Blackwall start, before he kicks one boot off his good leg and, bending the other leg under it, nestles in the grass at the water’s edge, wriggling his toes in the stream and polishing his enormous, proudly pink dawnstone war axe in leisurely, fluid motions.  
  
'Figured, better let the boss hang out with her own kind’.  
  
'The kind that so ingeniously camp out next to a source of water,’ Dorian cuts in, taking off one of his many silken layers and dipping it in to wash. With that fancy stuff-lifting green glow, of course. This one would rather die than do his chores with his own two hands.  
  
Blackwall huffs in vague disapproval and edges away from Bull and the Vint - and just happens to come within earshot of more silvery little voices, calling and teasing each other, intermingled with lots of splashing and bouts of shrill laughter.  
  
Lady Lavellan’s voice carries above them, even and soothing, and when Blackwall turns his head (stupid thing, really - but he does get this overpowering need to seek her out with his gaze whenever he hears her without seeing), he spots her, knee-deep in the river, stripped down to a white undershirt that just barely hugs her soft, curvy form, and blows into half a transparent wet bubbles around her. The tiny elflings, tatto-less and tanned to a deep bronze, are all around her - because of course she would volunteer to babysit; she always does!   
  
They keep screeching, shoving, filling up their mouths with water and spitting into each other’s faces… Rowdy as children should be, but up to a point. Whenever any of them wanders off where the current is too strong, the rocks too sharp, and the river bottom too far down, so that their little heads begin to bobble violently on the heaving waves - she comes to their aid, grabs at their clothes or eras or hair, and pulls them back to safety. Often with a reprimanding look or a curt word or two, which contrasts starkly enough with her usual kind warmth for the little one to learn their lesson.  
  
Maker’s balls, he could watch her like this forever. The context probably makes him seem a lecher: a greasy old human peeking through the bushes while a beautiful elf is bathing… Classical scenario that he had seen play out in Orlais so often that even beginning to count makes him bloody nauseous.   
  
But… He thinks - he hopes - there is more to this.   
  
A gorgeous woman, with skin brown as the earth and body folds as round and rolling as the hills, with the unwashable marks of healing potion-making on her fingers and the vine-like symbol of the hearth goddess etched into her face; wading through a wild river with graceful ease, sunlight tracing a fine golden contour round the wavy black mane that falls down one side of her head; patiently herding scattering children… There is something life-affirming about this; something peaceful, something… home-like. Something immensely moving; in this special, profound way that is almost heartrending… Because this is the exact opposite of his own destiny. Of what he deserves.  
  
Blackwall gets so lost in thought that he almost lets go of his coat… And he probably would not even have noticed that, the steady inner pain pulling his chest so tight that the rest of the world just… Falls away.  
  
What does bring him back to reality is the frightened, 'No, da'len!’ that comes from his lady. Her call of distress would be enough to rouse him from sleep in the dead of night, and grab a sword and shield with his hands before his mind properly wakes up.  
  
Right now, though, a sword and shield would be useless; instead, he fishes out his coat, hurls it back onto the bank, not even noticing where it’s landed, and, stumbling in with an ear-splitting splash, starts trudging against the current, to where a single slippery boulder juts out of the glimmering torrent, with a twiggy-legged, round-eyed young elfling, about half his big head taken up by broad translucent ears, is balancing desperately on the spot, risking to tumble off at any moment.   
  
Lady Lavellan is also making her way towards him from her end of the stream, having left behind a shaken-up, sniffling girl, who is rubbing at her eyes and saying over and over again,  
  
'I am sorry, Ar'Ghilana… If I didn’t ask you to get that icky river grass out of my hair… You’d notice Revas and… Ooh I am so sorry…’  
  
'Don’t beat yourself up, ma'asha,’ Lady Lavellan says to her at last, slanting her eyes over her shoulder. The sound of her voice, saying those words with such reassuring conviction, gives Blackwall such a pang of sharp, spearing hurt that his knees almost give way, and he comes ridiculously close to plopping face-down into the waves.  
  
'You are not to blame! And I will make this right!’  
  
And so she does. The current works in her favour, and she reaches the boy faster than Blackwall can even hope to do. Standing in front of the boulder, increasingly out of breath as she strains to remain firm against the onslaught of water that keeps pressing at her broad back, she reaches up to the reckless little Revas; and as his darting, tearful gaze gets drawn into the calm pools of her black eyes, he breathes in shakily and falls forward. Like one of those duckling that are tucked away as eggs into a well-hidden nest high up in the tree branches, and, once hatched, need to make a colossal (in duckling measurements) leap of faith to make it to the forest floor and follow their mother for their first swimming lesson.  
  
Lady Lavellan ensures a safe landing by locking him into a firm embrace, wincing as the impact disrupts her steady stance for a moment (and most likely, makes her scrape her foot against some sharp stone underwater). Before long, Blackwall already watches her drag the child to the bank, his ears aflame, right into the arms of his gasping, overwhelmed mother, who downright chokes on the chatter that flies out of her mouth with the speed of an arrow volley - torn between yelling at her sheepish-looking offspring and gushing over his savior,  
  
'Is abelas, Ar'Ghilana! You are our guest; you should not have had to risk your life! Honestly, that boy does not have the sense Mythal gave a mountain goat!’  
  
As he follows the scene unfolding, Blackwall quickly succumbs to that stone-flesh sensation again. Damn, he was probably making a fool of himself; rushing in to help her when she needs no help; stepping out of the shadows where he belongs, to meddle in something that she has completely under control. And getting all those ideas about protecting her in general. Protecting would imply that he is stronger, better; while he is not. He never will be. He is baggage, nothing more; a sorry wretch that a kind soul has let into her world as a friend and lover… Allowing him to wash himself in the affection that he has been so parched for; affection that is actually intended for a better man, a more convincing semblance of an equal to Ar'Ghilana.  
  
It will not do to overstep his boundaries; it will not do to assume that he is important enough to be needed all the time. It will…  
  
'Oh, Blackwall! How kind of you to step in!’  
  
'How is your foot? I thought I saw…’ he asks bumblingly, the sound of a familiar voice leaving him deafened… Or was that the hot thumping of his own heart?  
  
'Nothing lethal, just a tiny bump; haven’t even broken skin! But oh my, look at you! You have gotten drenched on mine and little Revas’ account! We both need warming up, I think!’  
  
His lady has padded back from the bank to meet him in the river, and is now standing face to face with his sorry, a bit wet-bearded self. Her eyes are glowing like two droplets of starry night sky; her hair has gotten even curlier with the damp; and her shirt is now soaked through, clinging on to what he can see of her body - just a little below her breasts, a fold of fabric tucked underneath, nipples large and dark and not at all concealed by the wet fabric.  
  
He swallows, hastily looking up (now, that was definitely lecherous) - but she glances back into his eyes with a twinkle of mischief.  
  
'Oh, I would very much like the kind of warming-up you are thinking of, my good Warden - but back at camp. There are children watching’.  
  
Her good Warden. Bloody Void, he is neither good, nor a Warden - but he is hers… Always hers. Hers up to his waist in water, melting into her scorching jet eyes, giving in to the first, promise-like kiss, fresh as the water in the stream and almost chaste, which she gives him before they both climb to dry ground (this, of course, evokes a collective 'Ewww!’ from the little ones). Hers in one of the little tents that their little team has been allowed to pitch up on the Dalish camp’s outskirts, with their damp clothing thrown haphazardly over a tree branch outside, their bodies clasped together as if they are both being tossed about by a crushing current and need something to hold on to, to claw into, to press against to the point of exhaustion. Hers, always hers, losing himself in her river-smelling kisses, in her luscious springy hair, in the beautiful, birthmark-spangled rolls of her flesh. Hers to taste and to conquer, thick silk-soft thighs on either side of him, clever alchemist’s fingers running down his stomach; hers to give pleasure to, far beyond what he is worthy, so that he half-groans, half-sobs a feverish 'Thank you!’ when he peaks, splashing at her breasts; and hers to nuzzle against when it is all over and they curl up under slightly coarse but heartily crafted Dalish blankets, basking in a moment’s reprieve before the elves might need their…  
  
'Ar'Ghilana…’ he murmurs, just the tiniest bit slurred, playing idly with her hair as she rests her chin on the hands she has crossed over his chest. 'What does it mean? Is it your People’s word for Herald?’  
  
'Not exactly,’ Lady Lavellan replies, tilting her head to rub her brow against his cheek.   
  
'It translates to “Our Guide”… And I got this title long before you folk decided to call me chosen of Andraste… Apparently, this impressed the clans so much that they still remember me… Even though it has been years since the Arlathvhen - clan gathering - where I had my little moment… I hate to brag… But if you close your eyes, maybe the spirits will show you some of my memories…’  
  
Squinting down at his chest is tickled by a faint charge of magic, Blackwall sees one of Lady Lavellan’s hands glow green, as it always happens when her Mark comes alive. He grumbles to himself - but not unkindly; even though he is somewhat wary of these abilities of hers (he cannot shake off the feeling that she will get herself hurt one day, piercing through the Fade like no non-mage should), he trusts her to know what she is doing. He has been living - and thriving, as much as he can afford to - in her guiding light so long, after all.  
  
Getting used to the tickle, he closes his eyes obediently - and is almost knocked senseless by the new, unseen, river of whispers that floods his mind.   
  
Before he can begin to panic, however, his thoughts immediately turning to his sword and shield, the whispers settle into a calm, drowsy stream, while one of them gains volume and clarity, shaping into a coherent voice. A loud and happy voice, making some manner of joyous announcement - which apparently belongs to an older elven woman, with skin like that of an apple that has been left out to shrivel in the sun.  
  
Blackwall can see her quite plainly before his mind’s eye, as if she were right here in the tent (and for a moment, he even blushes and thinks to himself that he in his lady had better check if they have cleaned themselves up properly, lest she spots some lingering evidence of their love-making). The apple-like impression her face makes is intensified by the crisscrossing dark tattoos that cover her face, probably depicting the branches of a tree. She is wearing bright bird-feather pads on her shoulders; the same feathers adorn the upper tip of her staff, which she clutches with one hand. Her other hand, she rests on the shoulder of a smiling young girl, small and round, with sleek black pigtails and deep eyes that Blackwall would know anywhere.   
  
It’s Lady Lavellan. His lady. As a child. And the old woman is giving her praise.  
  
'Before now, herbalists of all clans have regarded Fen'Harel’s Claw a poisonous plant fit for nothing but smearing our arrow tips. But this bright child, daughter of Clan Lavellan, has discovered a proportion in which it can be used to brew potent healing elixirs. Let this new knowledge be shared by all gathered here at the Arlathvhen - and let this child bear the title of Ar'Ghilana. Our Guide. For she has given us invaluable guidance. She has taught us a beautiful lesson today. That even the darkest, most vile and poisonous things, can have the capacity to heal’.  
  
Blackwall draws a rasping, agonized breath - and the vision dissolves as a puff of pipe smoke. He is back in the tent - and the very much grown-up Lavellan is peering into his face in concern.  
  
'Are you… Are you all right?’  
  
'Yes, yes, of course, my lady… I should just… I think we have overindulged a little. Maybe we should see what the others are up to’.  
  
'Fair enough,’ she responds, eyebrows still slightly knitted. 'I will… Grab our clothes back…’  
  
She pulls a blanket, cape-like, over her shoulders and leans out of the tent. And as soon as he is certain she can’t see him, Blackwall turns over and bites hard into his headrest to suppress a dry sob. 


End file.
